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Studies 

Shakespeare's 
Women 



by 



Marie M . McKenney 



BS ^i 






L J 



. 1909 

i itry 
CLASS CX. vv 




Jal F- 



000k 



Copyright, 1908 
fiy Marie'M. McKenney 



Published and Printed by 

McGill -Warner Co. 

St. Paul, Minn. 

1908 



Affectionately Inscribed 

to My Daughter 

Grace 

M. M. McK. 



Engravings gf 

Studies gf Shakespeare's Women 

Idealized by the Author 



Portia ... 


Opposite Page 

. 21 


Katharine of Arragon 


37 


n Cordelia . 


. 49 


Lady M.acbeth 


65 


Beatrice . . 


. 79 


Juliet .... 


87 


Rosalind . 


. 97 


""•Ophelia 


103 


Cleopatra . 


. 113 



Contents 






Page 


^Portia 


. 21 


Katharine of Arragon . 


37 


>/ Cordelia ..... 


. 49 


Lady Macbeth 


65 


Beatrice . 


. 79 


Juliet ..... 


87 


/Rosalind . 


. 97 


•Ophelia .... 


103 


Cleopatra ..... 


. 113 



PORTIA 




PORTIA 

JN his wonderful pictures of 
woman's mentality, Shake- 
speare has revealed the 
capacity of her mind, which 
was held of little account in his age. 
For a woman to possess gifts of mind 
then cast her among the obnoxious, and 
to Shakespeare belongs the honor of 
introducing to the world examples of 
beautiful and intelligent women, com- 
bining tender grace and spiritual worth 
with true strength of character, proto- 
ypes whom we of the twentieth century 
may be proud to claim. 

"The thousand-souled Shakespeare" 
discovers and presents the versatile 
characteristics of his women, portrays 
tneir wit, wisdom and genius, exalts 
their virtues, and as forcefully pictures 

[Page 21] 



their vices. Among his characters of 
strength, Lady Macbeth, Katharine of 
Arragon and Portia are prominent. 
Portia and Beatrice are frequently 
classed together as strong characters, of 
strong intellect, widely different in ex- 
pression, yet each superior in thought. 

In Portia, all sweetness, womanly 
modesty and tenderness breathe from 
her gracious presence. Her eloquence 
and noble discourse are but the natural 
outpouring of a mind attuned to har- 
mony of being. She is as merry with- 
in the limits of becoming mirth as she 
is womanly and wise. To this, she adds 
such skill that what she wills to do 
seems "wisest, virtuest, best." 

Her love for Bassanio in its renun- 
ciation is all womanly, all generous; 
she yields herself and her entire posses- 
sions to her soul mate and bends in 
acknowledgment to her lord, wishing 
herself "a thousand times more fair, 

[Page 22] 



ten thousand times more rich to stand 
well in his account." That, for herself 
alone, she would not be ambitious; yet, 
for him, she would be trebled twenty 
times to stand high in his regard* 

"Myself and what is mine, to you and 

yours 

Is now converted 

This house, these servants, and this same 

myself 
Are yours, my lord. I give them with 

this ring." 

Words of such faith might well call 
forth a kingly reply* 

"Madam, you have bereft me of all words, 
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins; 
As after some oration fairly spoke 
By a beloved prince, there doth appear 
Among the buzzing, pleased multitude, 
"Where every something, being blent to- 
gether, 
Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy, 
Expressed and not expressed. But when 

this ring 
Parts from this finger, then parts life from 
hence. 

[Page 23] 



The pledge is made in warmth of love 
and all sincerity, to be broken by the 
oncoming messenger of disaster and the 
pressure of untoward circumstances. 
The happiness of these lovers, crossed 
by tidings from Antonio of the loss of 
ships and the bond of forfeiture held 
by Shylock, the Jew, revealed the ob- 
ligation of her lord to the friend who 
made possible their marriage. 

Portia, with woman's devotion, rises 
to the full height of her vows, yields to 
the exigency of the situation, and ban- 
ishing dreams of stately nuptial splen- 
dor, she becomes at once the keen, 
efficient woman of sound judgment. 
"Oh, my dear lord, dispatch this busi- 
ness and be gone. You shall have gold 
to pay the money twenty times over 
before this kind friend shall lose a hair 
by my Bassanio's fault." 

Immediately they were married and 
Bassanio set out for Venice, blessed by 

f Page 24] 



the cheerful words and encouragement 
of his bride. Now t Portia straightway 
falls to reasoning whether by any means 
she can be instrumental in saving her 
dear Bassanio's friend, and doubting 
not her own powers, she feels called into 
action by the peril of one so greatly 
valued by her dear lord. The philos- 
ophy of her life being practical as well 
as poetic, she departs for Venice to 
speak in Antonio's defense, not feeling 
that she is stooping from her elevation 
thus to defend her husband's friend. 

With quickness and decision, she sets 
about to unwind the intricate web, 
shrinking not from public gaze; but di- 
vested of self, she stands the forceful 
counselor, whose rare tact, wisdom and 
efficiency are the cruel Jew's undoing. 

Having a relation, Bellario by name, 
counselor at law, she wrote to him, 
stating the case and desiring his opin- 
ion; asking also that he send her the 

[Page 25] 



dress worn by a counselor, to which 
Bellario responded with advice and all 
necessities for her equipment. 

Now, Portia has hope of solving the 
dilemma of both husband and friend. 
Bravely she crosses swords with wise 
counselors in the cause of mercy and jus- 
tice, incomparably displaying the most 
tactful diplomacy, to which the world 
for centuries has turned in admiration 
and wonder. 

The court has just opened and the 
cause is being presented when Portia 
enters, offering a letter from Bellario 
asking that the young doctor be per- 
mitted to plead in his stead. Side by 
side stand the two pictures, Portia and 
Shylock, in the same rich framework. 
Portia with the brilliant light of her 
noble character, a magnificent, beauty- 
breathing Titian; Shylock, the inexor- 
able Jew, a shadowy, dark Rembrandt. 

:!6| 



She beholds her husband and friei 
with agony of fear blanching their faces 
Her undaunted courage and determina- 
tion give the incentive of instant action 
and immediately she addresses the Jew: 

"Of a strange nature is the suit you follow; 
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed, 
You stand within his danger, do you not?" 

"Ay, so he says." 

"Do you confess the bond?" 

"I do." 

"Then must the Jew be merciful." 

"On what compulsion must I? tell me that." 

"Xii5_guality of mercy is not strained, 

It droppeth as the gentle dew from heaven 

Upon the earth beneath; it is twice blest; 

It blesseth him that gives and him that 

takes; 

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest 

It is enthroned in the heart of kings; 

It is an attribute of God himself; 

And earthly power does then show likest 

God's 
When mercy seasons justice." 

How she tempts him with her prayer, 

[Page 27 j 



"Shylocki there'i thrice thy money offered 
thee." 

"Shall I 1.1 y perjury upon my soul? 

No, not fur Vfiiicc." 

Again she appeals to his pity, 

"Take thrice thy money end bid mc i».<r 
the bond." 

But the cruel Shylock swears there is 
no power thai can change his decision. 
Bassanio begs the young counselor to 
endeavor to wrest the law and save An- 
tonio's life; to which Portia replies that 
the law cannot be altered. Then, in re- 
1 lection, she speaks to Antonio, who is 
taking leave of Bassanio, saying he has 
resigned his soul to death. 

"Ynti must prepare your bosom tor his 
(cnife< 

therefore l.iy bare your bosom." 

Those speeches, though addressed to 
Antonio, arc spoken at Shylock. With 
the same calmness, she asks for the 
balance to weigh the pound of flesh. 

[Pact 18] 



"I have tlii'm ready." 

"Have lome itirgeon, Shylocki on yotii 

< 1 1 . : | 

To stop hi:; wounds, lest he should bleed 
to death." 

Hearing this hist request, Shylock de- 
mands: 

"Is it 10 nominated hi the bond?" 

Portia answers, 

"It is not so expressed* but wh.it oi that? 

'Twere good you did 10 much h>r rh.irity." 

At this, Shylock, witli savage bent, 
springs on his victim. How grand the 
scorn, indignation and disgust of Portia! 
Mark with what subtlety she leads him 
on to his destruction. 

"A pound oi th.it lame merchant's flesh is 

thine; 
The court awards it and the law doth give 
it." 

Looking at the bond, the Daniel-like 
Portia in even tone continues: 

ii-.i, 



"Tarry a little; there is something else. 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of 

blood; 
The words expressly are 'a pound of flesh'; 
But in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy land and 

goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice." 
"Is that the law?" 

"Thyself shall see the act. 
For as thou urgest justice, be assured 
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou 

desirest." 

He sees the trap, hesitates and shrinks 
away as she lets fall upon him all her 
crashing avalanche of equity and wise 
counsel. She now reminds him of his 
position; of his wealth being forfeit to 
the state; of his having conspired against 
the life of a citizen, and demands that 
he go down on his knees and ask par- 
don of the duke, who, tempering justice 
with mercy, had pardoned his life, giv- 
ing half his wealth to Antonio, half to 
the state. " The generous Antonio relin- 

[ Page 30] 



quishes his share in the Jew's riches tip- 
on Shylock's promise that, at his death, 
it should go to his disinherited daughter 
and her Christian husband, the friend of 
Antonio* 

The Jew, disappointed in his revenge, 
despoiled of his wealth, gladly leaves 
the scene of his discomfiture at the 
duke's words, "Get thee gone, and sign 
this agreement, and if you repent your 
cruelty and turn Christian, the state 
will return the other half of your 
riches/' 

Dismissing Antonio and the court, the 
duke invites the wise young counselor 
to dine at his home, which invitation 
she must of necessity decline. The 
duke, turning to Antonio, says, "Re- 
ward this gentleman, for in my mind 
you are much indebted to him/' And 
the duke and senators leave the court. 

Bassanio, with expressions of grati- 
tude for the wise services rendered him 

[Page 31] 



and his friend Antonio, urges the young 
counselor to accept the three thousand 
ducats due the Jew. Portia declines, 
but still being pressed to accept some 
reward, asks his gloves that she may 
wear them for his sake. The bared 
hand reveals the ring and she added, 
"And for your love, I will take this 
ring." 

Sadly distressed that the counselor 
should ask as reward the only thing he 
could not part with, and in much con- 
fusion he tells her it is the gift of his 
wife and he has vowed never to part 
with it, but would get for her the most 
valuable ring in Venice. Affecting ef- 
frontery, the young counselor appears 
the selfish, arbitrary character as she 
leaves the court with the words, "You 
teach me, sir, how a beggar should be 
answered." 

Bassanio listens to the pleadings of 
his friend, Antonio, that the love and 

[Page 32] 



services he had rendered him be valued 
against his wife's displeasure, and the 
weak Bassanio, ashamed to appear un- 
grateful, yields and sends a messenger 
with the ring, 

Portia, dropping the robes of counsel- 
or, is again the diplomat with her need 
of strong action, judgment and tense 
pressure; is again all woman; and with 
the reaction and its sense of relief, she 
does not analyze her husband, but 
makes of his act a merry jest. And all 
the time, the consciousness of a good 
action has brought to her its reward of 
peaceful content. 

What floods of happy thought must 
have filled her mind as she turns home- 
ward, chatting with Nerissa, her maid. 
A bright, new and stainless page has 
been opened for Portia. With sweet 
content she nears her rest, her mission 
fulfilled. She remarks to Nerissa: 

[Page 33] 



"That light we see is burning in my hall. 
How far the little candle throws its beams! 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world." 

Surely, she had proved it in its full- 
ness. How fascinating her joyous man- 
ner in welcoming her husband and 
friends, whose home-coming followed so 
soon upon her own! How skilful her 
merry-making over the giving away of 
the betrothal ring! 

With much grace and innocence, she 
explains to Bassanio that she was the 
young counselor and Nerissa her clerk. 
Bassanio is again overwhelmed with joy 
and wonder at the noble courage and 
wisdom of his wife. He sees that this 
beautiful sunbeam of brightness before 
him is no illusion, but a person of solid 
sense and sober certainty. 

The value of her wise, courageous act 
meets with a happy conclusion, and the 
power of her goodness and love will en- 
dure through all time. 

[Page 34] 



KATHARINE OF 
ARRAGON 




KATHARINE OF 
ARRAGON 

>RE-EMINENTLYthe strong, 
est of Shakespeare's women 
is Katharine of Arragon, 
whose extraordinary mother 
had implanted in her mind the most 
austere principles and the highest ideals 
of decorum. 

At five years of age she was affianced 
to Arthur, Prince of Wales. At seven- 
teen she was made wife and widow and 
at twenty-four she married Henry the 
Eighth, brother of Prince Arthur, the 
marriage being celebrated with royal 
splendor. It was discussed in couricil 
and its fitness and lawfulness deter- 
mined by the highest authority of every 
realm, including her own wise father, 
the King of Spain. It was considered a 

[Page 37] 



match of many advantages, promising 
great happiness to ruler and people. 

Katharine possessed a disciplined in- 
tellect, great courage, and such unusual 
perception that both King and council 
stood in awe of her. Yet Henry was 
always fond of displaying his respect 
for his Queen, most noticeably expressed 
love for her on all occasions and accord- 
ed her honor and confidence. Katha- 
rine's highest happiness sprang from the 
consciousness of doing right and was 
the pinion on which her spiritual in- 
fluence over the King was borne. 

For many years Katharine and Henry 
lived happily together, notwithstanding 
the difference in their beliefs and the 
austerity of Katharine's faith. Henry 
was fond of listening to her and she ex- 
ercised a strong influence over his tur- 
bulent spirit. Had Henry died at this 
time, history would have recorded him 

LPase38] 



a magnificent and virtuous prince in- 
stead of the tyrant that after years 
proved. 

When he went to France in \ 513 he 
left her Regent of his kingdom with full 
power to carry on the war against the 
Scots. Bravely did she meet difficul- 
ties and encounter obstacles; earnestly 
did she aim to remove all instruments 
of wrong and to uplift the suffering. 
In humility before the King t fearless 
before the right, for the poor she plead- 
ed; for those whose freedom was sacri- 
ficed to the load of taxation and exac- 
tion, the desolation of wars and the 
extravagance of a gay and heartless 
regime. 

Henry daily grew more and more in- 
different without cause, and the won- 
derful charms of his Queen lost their 
beauty in the fascinations of Anne Bul- 
len, who, as maid of honor, appeared at 
court in 1529. At this time Henry be- 

[Page 89] 



gan to tire of his royal consort, and 
sought any means of escape from mar- 
ital vows, while she t who, "like a. jewel 
had hung for twenty years about his 
neck, yet never lost its luster/' was as 
a fetter to his unworthy ambition. 

This two-fold life of the King carried 
with it no emotion which inspired a 
single act of goodness or virtue to be 
set forth in history. A multitude of 
subterfuges were brought out by the 
court and council, actuated by the most 
ignoble purposes, to sever the sacred 
ties that bound Henry to his peerless 
Queen, whose matchless qualities had 
made his world so fair, his administra- 
tion so marked with distinction, glory 
and strength when under her guidance. 

But Wolsey's advice and intrigue fast 
enveloped the court atmosphere till all 
honor crumbled and the King stifled 
the last cry of conscience and seized 
with avidity the slightest suggestion of 



I Page 40 1 



scheme and villainy, moulding himself 
into a reincarnation of Satan. With his 
own hand he placed the fatal bandage 
over his eyes, for at this point sin be- 
came so easy that his conscience slept 
and he felt no remorse. He knew only 
the intoxication of this new dream and 
his determination to exercise his own 
sweet will, steeped in blackness though 
it was. And the shadow which dims 
the luster of his name falls on it by his 
own hand, and like a fretting rust eats 
away the gold that once illuminated it. 
One of his subterfuges was a seeming 
contrite heart when he expressed to 
Katharine a fear that an illegal mar- 
riage might be proved. This brought 
out all her love and sympathy, together 
with vigorous protests that she might 
quiet his unreasoning fears and uneasy 
conscience, troubled as he told her he 
was by his religious convictions and fear 
of wrongdoing. With Katharine's high 

I Page 11 I 



ideals, upright, wise and ever honorable 
course, she unhesitatingly and courage- 
ously urged the principles of right as 
against wrong. But her arguments did 
not sink deep into the heart or con- 
science of the King, who had already 
chosen the means to achieve his desire. 
At this time, Katharine's character 
had reached the highest level of excel- 
lence, and her promising life was at its 
prime when Henry's determined course 
reached its climax. Nowhere is there 
recorded courage greater and more he- 
roic than in Katharine's appeal to the 
King for justice and for protection of 
her own and her daughter's dignity; 
courage that shall redound to her honor 
throughout the ages. 

"Alas, sir, in what have I offended you? 
What cause hath my behavior given to 
your displeasure that you should proceed 
to put me off and take your good grace 
from me? Heaven witness I have been to 
you a true and lawful wife/' 

[Page 42] 



With dignity she proclaims herself a 
lawful wife t the debatable question set- 
tled before she took the vow. With 
virtuous scorn she challenges Cardinal 
Wolsey, who had "blown the coal be- 
tween my lord and me." 

With dignity grand in its purport, she 
makes that splendid appeal to the King, 
an appeal for justice and wifely protec- 
tion. The Cardinal urges the most hate- 
ful conditions upon her, but shrinks at 

her words, 

Uut upon ye! 

Heaven is above all yet; there sits a Judge 

That no king can corrupt." 

In the King's efforts to persuade her 
to enter a religious house, she rejected 
with disdain his advice. 

"I am the King's true wife and to him 

married; 
And if all doctors were dead, or law or 
Learning far out of men's minds at the 

time 
Of our marriage, yet I cannot think that 

the 

[Page 43] 



Court of Rome and tin* church of England 

would 
Have consented to i thing unlawful and 
detestable 

As you call ii. Still I say. I atn his wife 
And for him will T pray." 

Shortly after this the King ordered 
her to repair to a private residence and 

no longer consider herselt his lawful 
wile, to which the Queen replied that 
no matter to what place she was re- 
moved, nothing would prevent her from 
being the King's true wife. Immediate- 
ly thereafter the King married Anne 
Bullcn, while the decision relating to 
his former marriage was still pending. 

Katharine never recovered from the 
blow, but grandly asserting her right, 
thus addressed the heartless King: 

"My most dear Lord, Kin£ and Husband: 
The hour of my death now approaching. I 
cannot choose but. out of the love I bear 
you, advise you of your soul's health, 
which you ought to prefer before all con- 
siderations of the world or flesh whatso- 

1 44] 



ever, for which you have cast me into 
many calamities and yourself into many 
troubles. But I forgive you all and pray 
God to do so likewise. 

I commend unto you Mary, our daughter, 
beseeching you to be a father to her as I 

have heretofore desired 

Lastly, I make this vow, that mine eyes 
desire you above all things. —Farewell!" 

Thus we leave the fair Katharine, 
whose letter to the King was read 
through a mist of tears, the only tears 
ever recorded of Henry. 

We admire the Queen, not so much 

as a character of history, as a living 

ideal, exalted by trials, made perfect by 

affliction, into whom the Master of the 

human mind has put all the love, beauty 

and strength of womanhood. A sad, 

broken-hearted woman, dying as she 

had lived, loyally, royally, there can be 

no better tribute to her than the words 

once uttered by Henry: 

"Go thy ways, Kate. 
That man i' the world who shall report he 
has 



A better wife, let him in naught be trusted, 
For speaking false in thatl Thou art 

alone, 
If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, 
Thy meekness, saint-like, wife-like govern- 
ment, 
Obeying in commanding; and thy parts, 
Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee 

out 
The queen of earthly queens. She's nobly 

born, 
And like her true nobility she has 
Carried herself towards me." 



I Page 46 J 



CORDELIA 




CORDELIA 

)NE of the sweetest flowers 
that bloom in Shakespeare's 
literary garden of fair 
women is Cordelia, youngest 
daughter of King Lear, whose achieve- 
ment in conquering difficulties proved a 
mental poise beyond the power of prov- 
ocation or irritation to destroy. 

Her intense love for her father cannot 
be told, yet when she learns of the 
protestations of love so lavishly pro- 
claimed by her sisters, she cannot make 
up her mind to utter such flattering as- 
sertions. Ashamed to say aloud those 
sacred things held so tenderly in her 
heart to buy a dowry, she silently 
covers her sorrow and bears the hard- 
ship and asperities, which can be made 
worse than death by explanation, and 

[Page 49] 



is, consequently, disinherited by her 
father, for whom she feels the deepest 

affection* 

How pitiful! How woeful seems this 

tragedy oJ misunderstanding caused by 

the delieacy ot her nature. Her father, 
whose ruin is inevitable on account of 
the avarice and malignity of her sisters, 
leaves her. a solitary, sensitive spirit. 
searching vaguely for her place in this 
cold and uncharitable world. She is a 
heart-stirring picture; love and longing 
all swell within her, while griefi tear 
and misery press upon her. 

In the entire horizon of the human 
mind, no picture "mirrored in fancy's 
glass" could show greater distress. Cor- 
delia felt that it were better to forbear 
in silence than to be heard at this in- 
opportune moment. 

When we consider the great age of 
King Lear, we can more easily excuse 
his vanity in demanding an expression 

Pat* 5oi 



of affection from his daughters. Call- 
ing first his eldest daughter, Goneril, 
he demands an expression of her heart, 
which she protests is filled with great- 
est love for him; that he is more to her 
and dearer than her own life. Regan, 
the second daughter, protests with great 
oaths that she loves him more than 
tongue can tell. 

Then, calling Cordelia, he asks what 
account she makes of him. She ans- 
wers, "Knowing the great love and 
fatherly zeal which you have borne to- 
ward me, I protest that I have loved 
you ever; and while I live, shall love 
you as my natural father, and if you 
will assure yourself that so much as you 
are worth, so much I love you and no 
more." 

Lear, astonished at this reply, mar- 
ried his eldest two daughters, one to 
the Duke of Cornwall, the other to the 
Duke of Albany, willing his land to be 



divided between them after his death; 

one -half to be immediately assigned 
to them* For Cordelia* he reserved 
nothing. 
But one Prince of Gallia* named 

AganipptfS, learning of her loveliness and 

beauty of character, asked her hand in 
marriage, answer being made that he 
might have her, but without dower. 
AganipptSS eared only for her charming 

and amiable virtues and married her 
for what was grandest and truest in 
her nature, prising this as a blessing in 
comparison with which all wealth and 

grandetrr sank into nothingness* 

The vanity of her sisters flourished 
for a time, then withered like stricken 
trees. Cordelia's was 

"A nature t ti.it is noble and loyal. 

Sublime in all thai la grand) 

(.■twit tn tiu- supreme conception 

Of the work oi an Omnipotent hand*" 

i Pag* BS l 



The beauty which springs from a life 
like this has in its qualities a perma- 
nent vitality without mixture of the in- 
jurious and the evil. Take away the 
soul of a woman and what is she? De- 
stroy the faculties of the soul and you 
extinguish her. The unnatural dealings 
of Cordelia's sisters with their father 
took away their souls, leaving nothing 
but avarice and intrigue. 

Picture, if you can, daughters so av- 
aricious as to despoil their father of the 
government of his lands, assigning him 
only a portion, which in time became 
so diminished as to be unsuited to his 
position. 

The rancor in his heart sank deeper 
and deeper each day from the unkind- 
ness of his elder daughters, who seemed 
to think their father possessed too much, 
little though it was. 

Going from one to the other, he was 
brought to such misery that he fled the 

[Page 63] 



land and sailed to Gallia, to seek Cor- 
delia, forgetting the bitterness he had 
entertained toward her. Cordelia re- 
ceived him affectionately, and in her 
ardent sympathy, privily sent him a 
sum of money suitably to apparel him- 
self to appear at court, where he was 
so becomingly and lovingly received 
that his sore heart was greatly com- 
forted, for he was no less honored than 
in former days. 

Aganippus then caused a large army 
to be put in readiness and a great navy 
to be constructed, and all passed into 
Britain with the old King, his father- 
in-law, Cordelia accompanying father 
and husband. A severe battle ensued 
in which Maglanus and Hennius were 
slain. Lear was restored to his king- 
dom and ruled for two years, dying 
after a reign of forty years. 

The reconciliation of father and 
daughter proves the loving heart of 

[Page 54] 



Cordelia* It was intended in the Divine 
plan that love should be the ruling pas- 
sion of the world. The meaning of love 
is faithfulness, devotion and truth. 
What better example could be brought 
than this of Cordelia and her sisters, 
whose cold-hearted stratagems wrecked 
their lives and caused the ruin of their 
husbands and the loss of their empires? 

When avarice is made the first 
principle of life t how soon do the choic- 
est qualities disappear, lessening every 
strong and noble purpose. The heart's 
affection becomes only superficial and 
is not developed by human kindness 
into that which is good and true; but 
that which is wicked and false. The 
affection and true-heartedness brought 
back her dear old father from misery 
and degradation and won for her hus- 
band a kingdom. 

The malignant natures of Goneril and 
Regan, and their filial ingratitude, stand 

[Page 55] 



in striking contrast to the sweet vir- 
tues of Cordelia. Goneril, especially, in 
her innate selfishness, deserves the 
greatest censure. Her husband, how- 
ever, shared not in her malice, but re- 
mained always true to the King. 

Regan, on the other hand, had in 
Cornwall a husband who was in perfect 
accord with her plotting against her 
father, joining her in the personifica- 
tion of ingratitude. Had Shakespeare 
been the author of the human heart, it 
seems hardly possible he could have 
better understood what it is in it or 
how it is made. 

Cordelia unwillingly sees the infirmi- 
ties of her beloved father and pities 
them in the spirit of a true daughter. 
Her marvelous silence in the presence 
of her sisters evidences a character God- 
given, which does not appear to the 
eye or sense. The beautiful flowers of 
her good deeds do not wither, but con- 

I Page 66] 



tinue to bloom with cultivation; to en- 
chant in many hues; ablaze with the 
glories of crimson, purple and gold, so 
that new joy, new hope and new wis- 
dom encompass hen 

Her life was not a long life but a 
strong life, rich in every quality that 
endears* She possessed the tenderest of 
hearts, full of sympathy, so sunny in 
nature that the stars sang for her in 
their silent beauty and the winds made 
music for her ears* 

Lear, in speaking of her to the King 
of France, said, "I loved her most and 
thought to stay my rest on her kind 
nursery." Lear seemed to hunger and 
thirst for expressions of affection from 
his children, while Cordelia with gra- 
cious charm, kept his faculties in good 
tune, save for the strategy of her sis- 
ters* She longed to protect him, and 
would have done so had he not cast 

[Page 57] 



her off in anger* Thwarted in his hope, 
he was aflame with rage and speaks of 
her as 

"Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate, 
Dowered with our curse, and strangered 
With our oath." 

The King of France replies, 

"This is most strange, 
That she, that even but now was your best 

object, 
The argument of your praise, balm of your 

age, 
Most best, most dearest, should in this 

trice of time 
Commit a thing so monstrous to dismantle 
So many folds of your favor/' 

Hudson says, "Lear's behavior to- 
ward Cordelia is like a child who is 
peevish and fretful, and prevented from 
kissing his nurse, falls to striking her." 

Lear knows that he has wronged his 
best beloved child, and to appear that 
he is right, he binds the act with an 
oath, a striking evidence of his weak- 

IPage 58] 



ened mind. Sensitive to the wrong he 
has done her, his remorse renders him 
more provoked regarding the treatment 
of his elder daughters and a chaos of 
mind ensues. What a wonderful tran- 
sition must have followed, first in still- 
ness, then tempest and storm! What 
alterations of feelings! What sudden 
and grief-stricken emotions must have 
filled his heart as he sat with stars 
shining above, the silence broken only 
by the fountain and a long colonnade of 
people, who seemed like statues stand- 
ing wraith-like in the soft light. Beau- 
tiful and in full glory shone the moon, 
but the winter snows of his heart chilled 
and folded the world in its frosts. 

Cordelia asks the physician, "What can 
man's wisdom in the restoring his bereav- 
ed sense ?" The physician replies, 

"There is means, madam; 
Our foster nurse of nature is repose, 
The which he lacks/' 

[Page 59] 



And again the reply is significant. The 
physician, in giving directions for pre- 
venting a relapse, tells her, 

"Be comforted, good in.ul.un, the great 

rage 
You *>.v ts cured in him; and ye1 'tis danger 

To make even o'er the time he lias lost. 
Desire him to go in; trouble him no more 
Till further sitting" 

A critic says of Cordelia that "every- 
thing in her lies beyond our view and 
affects ns in such a manner that we 
rather feel than perceive it." The 
strongest affections are not the most 
demonstrative. He who knows how to 
persist through discouragements can 
achieve a power which enables him to 
uplift and illumine conditions. 

Cordelia possessed a peculiar fitness 
for filial piety which she enacted in 
sacred duty religiously observed, veiling 
her acts in such pure simplicity as to 
reflect an influence of loving sympathy 



[Page 60] 



all her own. She thinks and shapes 
her acts instead of her speech, save on 
occasions, as when, kneeling before her 
father, she entreats him "to hold his 
hands in benediction o'er her." She 
knows the wiles of her sisters, but, in 
true allegiance to her family, veils their 
faults and holds her heart's woe in 
silence. Her poor old father had cast 
her off from his bounty but he could 
not cast her from his heart. 

Noting again from Hudson, "We seem 
almost to hear her sighs and feel her 
breath as she hangs like a ministering 
angel over her reviving father; the vis- 
ion sinks sweetly and quietly into the 
heart." 

Schlegel says, "Of Cordelia's heavenly 
beauty of soul I dare not speak." Rich 
indeed was her sway over all loving 
and sympathetic emotions. Her benev- 
olence and kindly acts made life beau- 
tiful to many who were sore of heart 

[Page II] 



and stricken of soul, pouring into their 
existence light, gladness and sunshine. 

Unlike the sordid earthiness of her 
sisters, her character reveals qualities 
generous and affectionate, beaming in 
tact and penetration; in spiritual beau- 
ties and moral consciousness. Her nat- 
uralness and nobility creep into the 
heart. We seem to hear the sweet 
tones of her voice as of modulated music 
which fills the air with touching sym- 
phony, like that which drops from a 
lute of heaven when a seraph breathes 
on it. 



[Page 62] 



LADY MACBETH 



LADY MACBETH 

L "ADYMacbeth,the most force- 
ful of Shakespeare's women, 




stands alone. Her insatiable 
ambition, overpowering 
every gentler quality, has a fascination 
in its horrible method of winning a 
crown. We stand aghast at her calm- 
ness in planning the murder of the good 
old King, her guest, who had so gener- 
ously raised her husband to greatness. 
We shrink from the details of a crime 
against the trusting, silver-haired man, 
who comes, it would seem, in answer 
to a terrible thought of opportunity. 

Macbeth longs for the object of his 
pursuit but shrinks from the means to 
attain the end. He fears "to let the 
sun see his wished-for crime/' Hudson 
says,. "The weird sisters do not create 

[Page 65] 



the evil heart; they only unite the evil 
hands/' They put nothing into Mac- 
beth's mind? merely draw out what is 
already there. We are naturally made 
conscious of what is within us by the 
shadow it casts in the light of occasion. 
Lady Macbeth had been growing and 
expounding an ambition to have her 
husband wear the crown; and to do her 
justice, we must acknowledge it was a 
wish of affectionate unselfishness, a de- 
sire to see him honored. Lady Mac- 
beth knows her husband's weakness per- 
fectly, and stimulates his courage and 
ambition by her connivance and own 
vicious planning of the crime. The let- 
ter which Macbeth writes to her con- 
cerning the witches, shows perfect love 
and trust as he addresses her; 

"This have I thought to deliver to thee, 
my dearest partner of greatness, that thou 
mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by 
being ignorant of what greatness is prom- 
ised thee." 

rtti| 



When her husband's nature, more 
cowardly than her own, recoils from the 
deed of horror, Lady Macbeth asks, 

"What beast was't then 
That made you break this enterprise to me? 
When you durst do it, then you were a 

man; 
And to be more than what you were, you 

would 
Be so much more the man." 

Her "undaunted mettle" disdains the 
cowardice of her husband. She would 
have died rather than have uttered a 
complaint. Only one purpose was be- 
fore her. Preparing herself for the or- 
deal, she cries, 

"Come, you spirits 
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me 

here, 
And fill me from the crown to the toe 

top-full 
Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood; 
Stop up the access and passage of remorse, 
That no compunctious visitings of nature 

rPageGTJ 



Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace be- 
tween 
The effect and it." 

In considering Lady Macbeth's char- 
acter, notice particularly one thing, that 
she is ambitious more for her husband 
than for herself. In her reflections on 
his character, she remarks on the fluid- 
ity of his nature, but not in scorn does 
she speak of him, rather with womanly 
respect and wifely love. 

"Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; thou shalt 

be 
What thou art promised. Yet do I fear 

thy nature; 
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, 
To catch the nearest way." 

Fully conscious of her intellectual en- 
dowments, she appreciates, too, what 
her future position will mean to her, 
and the dream of power lures her on. 

"Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor! 
Greater than both by the all-hail hereafterl 

l Page 68] 



Thy letters have transported me beyond 
This ignorant present, and I feel now 
The future in the instant!" 

Although there is no proof that Lady 
Macbeth was the accomplice in more 
than one crime, she, certainly, was the 
instigator of all that was foul. At the 
suggestion of failure, she exclaims: 

"We faill 
But screw your courage to the sticking- 

place 
And we'll not fail." 

And earlier than this she has said to 

him: 

"Art thou afeared 
To be the same in thine own act and valor 
As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have 

that 
Which thou esteemst the ornament of life, 
And live a coward in thine own esteem, 
Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' 
Like the poor cat i' the adage?" 

Macbeth's reply shows that he is 
stung to action. 

[Pajre 6»] 



"Prithee, peace: 
I dare do all that may become a man; 
Who dares do more is none." 

Surely, he has reached the acme of 
wickedness. In this awful plotting, he 
has let go his hold on heaven that he 
might wear a crown. A crown is won, 
but heaven is lost. 

With sinister desire and remorseless 
determination, she urges the means 
which justify the end, until the horrible 
tale is told. Like a woman unsexed, 
she calmly makes preparations for the 
deed t intoxicating the men in Duncan's 
chamber, carrying the weapons with 
which Macbeth is to perform the crime, 
weakening from doing it herself only 
when, looking upon the peaceful victim 
of her vile intent, she sees his resem- 
blance to her father. 

Memories of innocence and filial de- 
votion come flooding back and paralyze 

l Page 70] 



the hand uplifted to slay. But there is 
no recoil to Lady Macbeth — to plan is 
to execute. 

The most demoniacal situation given 
to Lady Macbeth is that wherein she 
commands her husband to return, to 
the King's chamber, the daggers which 
he has brought, and to smear the 
"sleepy grooms with blood." Macbeth, 
in his remorse, wishes he could rouse 
the sleeper to life again; and we pity 
the agony of his self-accusation. 

"I'll go no more. 
I am afraid to think what I have done; 
Look on't again, I dare not." 

In contempt of fear, she replies, 

"Infirm of purpose! 

Give me the daggers; the sleeping and the 
dead 

Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of child- 
hood 

That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, 

I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal; 

For it must seem their guilt." 

[Page 71] 



Returning from the chamber of death 
with nerves of steel, she holds out her 
blood-stained hands to the terrified 
partner of her crime, and as though 
challenging fate, she cries, 

"My hands of your color, bat I shame 
To wear a heart so white." 

The horror of retribution comes later 
when she cries out in agony of mind, 
"What! will these hands ne'er be 
clean?" 

When morning light discloses the 
tragedy, Lady Macbeth, feigning with 
consummate skill untold pity for the 
dear friend, shields and strengthens her 
husband with such astounding calm- 
ness that no suspicion falls upon the 
guilty couple. 

In reading the terrible tragedy, it ap- 
pears that Lady Macbeth holds her self- 
control, keeps her remorse in abeyance 
only until the object of her ambition is 

1 Page 72] 



attained. She does not take part in 
the foul murders which her husband 
instigates to assure his supposed safety. 
"She has plunged with her husband in- 
to the abyss of guilt to secure to all 
their days and nights to come, sole 
sovereign sway and masterdom." 

Her ambition has now been gratified, 
her husband is king, but the honors 
thus gained rest not easy upon her 
brow, for conscience has quite over- 
thrown her. The spirits of evil, who 
came at her call, go not at her bidding. 
They are under her eyelids when she 
would sleep, and, in her waking hours, 
they are her constant companions. In 
her dreams, they bring back nightly 
her hideous crime. Her blood-stained 
hands cry out unceasingly in silent wit- 
ness of her guilt. After all, the crown 
for which she sinned so premeditatedly, 
is but one of thorns. 

[Page 73] 



In the sleep-walking scene, we have 
a glimpse of her inner torture* Her 
sleep is no longer repose, but helpless 
despair, Wailingly she cries, 

"Oat, damned spot! Out, I say! One; 
two; why, then 'tis time to do it. Hell is 
murky! Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier and 
afeared? What need we fear who knows 
it, when none can call oar power to ac- 
count?" 

Lady Macbeth was a woman without 
woman's greatest attribute, a tender 
heart. The lure of power and its glory 
is her absorbing thought, but, soon after 
wearing the crown, her inner conscious- 
ness wakes tb bitter unrest, and it is 
only to cover Macbeth's behavior and 
the words let fall before their astonished 
guests, that she can summon energy to 
excuse him and to maintain a calm de- 
meanor. 

But secrets which her waking mind 
would ne'er reveal, are laid bare in 

[Page 74 J 



helpless slumber, and this strong-willed 
woman, with her masterful control, wan- 
ders about the castle, uttering the tale 
of her crime and trying to wash the 
blood stains from her hands which "all 
the perfumes of Arabia cannot sweeten/* 

"Wash your hands pot on your night- 
gown; look not so pale. I tell you yet 
again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come 
out of's grave." 

And thus she lives over those terrible 
scenes. Her doctor says, "More needs 
she the Divine than the physician/* 

How little value is the realization of 
any ambition on which the blessing of 
God cannot rest! Lady Macbeth had 
reaped what she had sown — Evil. 



[Page 75] 



BEATRICE 




I 




BEATRICE 

!N Beatrice, we have a char- 
acter most interesting and 
one that appeals to us in its 
many-sidedness. She pos- 
sesses the quality of exuberance in so 
marked a degree as to enhance her 
beauty and make it more entrancing. 
She is a woman spontaneous, vivacious 
and resolute, whose fiery spirit and dom- 
inating will make her feared while she is 
admired. 

She stings to pique the self-esteem of 
those at whom she aims the dart, while 
her words do violence to smiling lips 
and eyes made brighter by malicious 
enjoyment. This pleasing, enjoyable wit 
she studies, cultivates and relies upon as 
a passport in the world of which she is 
a part; that world ever praising and 

[Page 79] 



caressing the favorite of the hour, whose 
entertaining jests are lavishly bestowed 
to please or to wound. 

As guest of her imcle t the Governor 
of Messina, she meets Benedick, Lord 
of Padua, and their introduction is the 
signal to arms, each recognizing the 
challenge to a skirmish of wit. 

Benedick, "ne'er ruffled by those cat- 
aracts and breaks which humor inter- 
posed too often makes/' ignores the 
presence of the merry jester when he 
again enters the home of the Governor, 
with whom he begins a lively conver- 
sation. Beatrice, piqued by being left 
out of the discourse, interrupts Bene- 
dick by saying: 

"I wonder that you will still be talking, 
Signior Benedick, nobody marks you." 

To which Benedick replies, 

"What, my dear Lady Disdain, are you 

yet living?" 

"Is it possible Disdain should die while she 

Page 80] 



hath such meet food to feed it as Signior 
Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to 
disdain if you come in her presence/' 
"Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is 
certain I am loved of all ladies, only you 
excepted; And I would I could find it in 
my heart that I had not a hard heart; for 
truly I love none." 

"A dear happiness to women: They would 
else have been troubled with a pernicious 
suitor; I thank God and my cold blood, I 
am of your humor for that. I had rather 
hear my dog bark at a crow than to hear 
a man swear he loves me." 

As like begets like, so surely do these 
two "rare parrot teachers" each claim 
the thought of the other, and while 
claiming it, the Cupid they both de- 
clare against is following his course not 
smoothly. 

The prince shows delight in the con- 
versation of Benedick, and Beatrice, 
observing this, calls him the prince's 
jester. For a time Benedick resents 
this; still, each believing the other to 
be in love with another, the malady of 

[Page 81] 



jealousy creeps in and at last produces 
the result so much desired by the 
uncle* 

While Beatrice, in outward behavior, 
appears to dislike Benedick, she holds 
him in high favor, disguising her inner 
feeling with witty conversation, which 
often produces a tragic dish for diges- 
tion. She laughs out her sadness, plays 
out her seriousness and bows in heart 
to her honored victor, while her true 
self is revealed to Benedick by the kind 
conspiracy of friends. 

At the same time, Benedick hears 
that the Governor has said that, if they 
were married a week, they would talk 
themselves mad; and it was said of 
Beatrice that she was wise in all things 
save in loving him. At this Benedick 
was roused, and, thinking that no great 
argument of her folly, earnestly resolved 
to win her affections. But, at each 
meeting, the wordy battle was renewed 

[Page 82] 



in no lavender and rosewater manner. 
Yet we find them each anxious for the 
good opinion of the other, and a com- 
mon sympathy for Lady Hero t Beatrice's 
cousin, so wrongfully accused, gives a 
favorable opportunity to bring out the 
best and highest qualities of each* 

They had been tricked into love by 
the power of a false jest, but the affec- 
tion which a merry invention had 
cheated them into, had grown too pow- 
erful to be shaken by a serious expla- 
nation. And, since Benedick proposed 
to marry her, he was resolved to think 
nothing of what the world might say 
against it. So he merrily kept up the 
jest and swore to Beatrice that he took 
her out of pity, while Beatrice pro- 
tested that she yielded to great per- 
suasion and married him to save his 
life, for she heard that he was "in a 
consumption/' 

[Page 83 J 



Pronounced characteristics must ever 
hold sway; but it is to be hoped that 
the united qualities of patience and for- 
titude, soundness of heart and judg- 
ment, came to them and tempered their 
imperious pride to devotion and kind 
consideration. For, as are the contin- 
uous thoughts, so also will be the char- 
acter of the mind. 

We will leave Benedick and Beatrice 
to their matrimonial triumphs with the 
hope that, as Benedick asserts they 
were both too wise to woo peaceably, 
they may be able to sheathe their sharp 
steel in velvet and soften their wordy 
blows to tender caresses. 

The volatility of the past was re- 
placed by purposeful and ennobled char- 
acter, choosing the significant rather 
than the insignificant; the permanent 
rather^ than the transient pleasures of 
life, 

[Page 84] 



JULIET 




JULIET 

SHE well known character of 
Juliet is viewed from many 
points* Her life's story has 
been charmingly told, to be 
exceeded in beauty only by the subject 
which inspired it. Her sweet t young 
face looked goodness and her laugh 
lighted all around her as though she 
were the brightest wit of a conversa- 
tion. She possessed a delicate, intense 
nature, often indulged in delicious rev- 
eries and fairy dreams in the privacy of 
her own chamber, where she divined 
things which held her happily entranced. 
The vital fire of love which was to 
rouse her from a dreaming childhood 
into a sentient, passionate woman, had 
not yet awakened, and the cruel god- 
dess of her dreams was pluming her 



[Page 87] 



wings for flight, leaving Juliet gazing 
from the forest crowned heights on 
which a mist still lay sleeping. 

No lamb had a warmer sheep-fold 
than the home where her childhood 
nestled. But the day had arrived when 
the sovereignty of her own heart was 
no longer hers, and a higher and still 
higher light shone for her, creating a 
beautiful world out of chaos. The cre- 
ative touch has been given and, from 
the quiet seclusion of her home, she has 
rushed outward to a life of fascination, 
unfolding into the eternal flower of 
love's being. Young hearts, just set- 
ting forth upon the journey, cannot 
solve the enigma of this experience, 
but, sooner or later it comes to all. 
An image appears like the marble stat- 
ue of Pygmalion, the eyes and lips give 
signs of turning into speaking, loving 
life, which entrances and governs the 
heart. 

IPagre 88] 



No character in Shakespeare appeals 
more keenly to our sympathies than 
does that of Juliet. With life all un- 
tried before her, she rushes on to de- 
struction, unhindered. She has no com- 
panion save the garrulous old nurse, 
who proves a very incompetent guide 
through the quicksands and shoals that 
await her. The unyielding, tyrannical 
nature of her father, in his determina- 
tion to force her into a distasteful mar- 
riage with Count Paris, must in a meas- 
ure excuse her duplicity. 

In judging Juliet, we must remember 
her tender years. Not quite fourteen, 
she gives her passionate first love to 
the enemy of her home, without thought 
or reason, and when the merry feast 
and dance is ended, tells, to the night, 
the burden of her thought. 

"O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou 

Romeo? 
Deny thy father and refuse thy name, 
For my sake." 

[Page 89 J 



To which comes the answer: 

"Call me but love, and I'll be new baptised; 
Henceforth I will never be Romeo/' 

Impetuously comes the promise and 
fulfillment of the secret marriage, fol- 
lowed closely by her father's promise of 
her hand to the gallant young noble- 
man, Count Paris* The struggle now 
begins between love and evil destinies 
and a cruel world. A few short hours 
of unalloyed happiness are theirs in 
which to recount the romance of their 
meeting, when Juliet can assert her 
right to be wooed in words of maidenly 

modesty. 

"Ah, gentle Romeo, 

If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully; 

Or, if thou thinkst I'm too quickly won, 

I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay, 

So thou wilt woo." 

This storm tossed Romeo is as su- 
preme in the realm of love is as Hamlet 

[Page 90] 



in the realm of thought; and Juliet in 
love overshadows all other women* 

Drinking of the potion which will lay 
her unconscious in the cold earth, for- 
getful of fears, with all faith and re- 
nunciation for love's sweet sake, Juliet 
is the embodiment of devotion, of cour- 
age undaunted* We think of her as 
the child-wife, hearing her father's fate- 
ful words, 

"An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend; 
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in 

the street, 
For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge 

thee." 

The child, pleading to her mother, re- 
ceives no solace, no support. 

"O, sweet my mother, cast me not away! 
Delay this marriage for a month, a week; 
Or, if thou do not, make the bridal bed 
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies." 

Lady Capulet answers, 

f Page 9 1 ] 



'Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word. 
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee/' 

Torn by conflicting emotions, love, 
duty, obedience, she still seeks counsel 
in her woes and appeals to her nurse: 

"O nurse! how shall this be prevented? 

My husband is on earth, my faith in hea- 
ven; 

Comfort me, counsel me. 

Alack, alack, that heaven should practice 
stratagems 

Upon so soft a subject as myself!" 

Nurse replies, 

"Faith, here it is: 

Romeo is banished, and all the world to 

nothing, 
That he dares ne'er come back to challenge 

you; 
Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth. 
Then, since the case so stands as now it 

doth, 
I think it best you married with the county. 
Oh, he's a lovely gentleman! 
Romeo's a dishclout to him; an eagle, 

madam, 
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye 

[Page 92] 



c 



As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, 
I think you are happy in this second match, 
For it excels your first; or if it did not, 
Your first is dead, or 'twere as good he 

were, 
As living here and you no use to him." 

"Speakest thou from thy heart?" 

"And from my soul, too, 
Or else beshrew them both." 

"Amen! Well, thou hast comforted 
me marvelous much, 

Go in and tell my lady I am gone, 

Having displeased my father, to Lau- 
rence' cell, 

To make confession and be absolved." 



The girl to womanhood has sprung, 
and her bursting heart with determi- 
nation awaits any hardship. In frenzy, 
she exclaims: 

"Oh, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, 
From off the battlements of yonder tower, 
Or bid me go into a new-made grave, 
And hide me with a deadman in his shroud, 
And I will do it without fear or doubt, 
To live an unstained wife to my sweet love." 

[Pag© 93 J 



The artifice of the potion is perfect, 
though in execution it becomes a trag- 
edy. She is carried to her grave in 
solemn state, waking in due time only 
to discover the riot of death about her, 
and, thinking that Romeo has taken 
poison, she first kisses his lips, so that, 
if possible, some slight portion might 
there be found that would also work 
its power on her. Then, discovering 
his dagger, she seizes it, saying, "O 
happy dagger!" stabs herself and dies. 
The sacrifice of these child-lovers to 
the quarrels and dissensions of the fam- 
ilies of Capulet and Montague ends the 
feud, and to Juliet Lord Montague 
erects a statue of pure gold, that while 
Verona shall keep its name, no figure 
shall be so esteemed for the richness 
and workmanship as that of the true 
and faithful Juliet. 

And Shakespeare may well declare 
"Never was there story of more woe 
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo." 

[Page 94] 



ROSALIND 




ROSALIND 

SOSALIND inherited from 
her dethroned and banished 
father the spirit of meek 
submission, gentleness, and 
a greater attribute, forgiveness. En- 
vironed by court splendor, loved by her 
uncle, the usurper, adored by her cousin, 
Celia, the Naomi of the romance, 
Rosalind draws her father's loyal sub- 
jects closer to him by her sad, sweet 
beauty, speaking the story of the Arden 
forest and depicting its gloom with a 
silence and melancholy more impressive 
than any spoken word. Adjusting her- 
self to new conditions without envy, sur- 
rendering her rightful homage to another 
with loving unselfishness, we see in her a 
character full of womanly worth, possessed 
of Christian virtues, many and rare. 

[Page 97] 



When she, too, is banished by the 
cruel uncle, envious of her growing 
favor, fearful of his daughter's pres- 
tige, she accepts the trial bravely, with- 
out grief or regret, with a calm resigna- 
tion to the inevitable, developing and 
strengthening faculties lying dormant 
until called into action by this sudden 
demand. 

Celia, a voluntary exile for her cous- 
in's sake, elicits the strength of a chiv- 
alrous brother. Gladly, as well as hu- 
morously, Rosalind dons the attire to 
speed them well on their weary jour- 
ney, and we find, throughout the drama 
of this love play, that, with the change 
of scene and raiment, a merry heart 
and sparkling wit bubble forth to cheer 
her devoted companions, and her gen- 
ial spirit touches into life whatever it 
shines upon. 

Added to her experiences, there has 
come a deeper knowledge. She has met 

[Page 981 



Orlando, the wrestler, the hated brother 
of a reigning duke, whose father, Sir 
Rowland de Boys — dead some years 
since — was a firm and honored friend 
of her father* Her pity for Orlando's 
sad condition (and pity's always akin 
to love) had lighted a flame in both 
voting hearts, giving to her both joy 
and pain and to him the conquering 
valor and love to be rewarded in the 
forest of Arden, where in the amusing 
role of Ganymede, she puts her lover to 
the full test and learns the measure of 
his love and constancy* 

Rosalind, in intellect, is the equal of 
Beatrice; in wit, as sparkling, but more 
kind, never wounding, but always hold- 
ing to her own high ideals* In woman- 
ly worth, she is superior to many char- 
acters portrayed by Shakespeare, though 
as a dramatic character not so strong* 

We admire her courage as the shep- 
herd in the lonely forest, her loyalty to 

[Page 99] 



the man without a career, Orlando, a 
toy of chance as he seems, deprived of 
education by his unnatural brother, is 
saddened, dismayed at the dangers be- 
fore them; but Rosalind smooths the 
rough places, smiles away the frown of 
despair, seeks her father's blessing upon 
their union, and with womanly genius, 
weaves the web to capture fortune and 
success. Meanwhile, her faith is bring- 
ing its reward in the reconciliation of 
the two brothers, the restoration of the 
estates and her father's dukedom. 

The wedding chimes ring joyously as 
the Duke gives the fair Rosalind into 
the keeping of another, closing the last 
chapter in the book of the exiles: 

"Then is there mirth in heaven, 

"When earthly things made even 

Atone together. 

Good duke, receive thy daughter; 

Hymen from heaven brought her, 

Yea, brought her hither, 

That thou mightst join her hand with his 

Whose heart within her bosom is." 

[Page 3 00] 



OPHELIA 




r- 



1 










OPHELIA 

,OULD a character be more 
replete with tragic intensity 
and heart touching experi- 
ences than that of Ophelia! 
Brought from a life of obscurity into 
the circle of a pompous and dissolute 
court, the gentle, motherless girl is 
placed as a favorite attendant upon an 
artful queen t who t recognizing her beau- 
ty and innocence, bestows upon her 
much love and earnest solicitude* The 
tender-hearted, responsive child, oft,- 
spring of a delicate mother, nurtured 
in quiet seclusion, and with loving care, 
opened like a flower to the benign in- 
fluence of this atmosphere and raised 
her sweet face to the sunshine of life 
unafraid. 

[Page 103] 



The Queen's affection for Ophelia is 
one of the commendable things record- 
ed of her and the mother-love shown 
to both Hamlet and Ophelia portrays 
an unselfish nature, in a measure recon- 
ciling us to this changeful, rather 
unique character. 

That she had hoped to see Ophelia 
her son's wife is, in itself, a tribute to 
her winsome ways and mental endow- 
ments and to Ophelia's virtue and 
faithfulness. 

The distress of the queen mother is 
manifested as she looks for a cure for 
the madness, assumed or real, which 
possesses her much-loved son, for whom 
she feels the mother's thrill, joy and 
pride in the success which had crowned 
his brilliant career. / 

Hamlet's is a delicate, impassioned 
nature, possessing the purest type of 
thought, cradled under the influence of 
the noblest of fathers; passionately in 

[Page 104] 



love with the purest, sweetest of girls. 
Looking "from the heights of the throne 
to which he is born," he perceives 
naught but beauty and happiness await- 
ing him, when suddenly the blow falls 
like a clap of thunder from a cloudless sky. 
The most earnest students of Shake- 
speare have called Ophelia intellectual 
and of marked and unusual ability. 
One writer asserts that "Hamlet's love 
for Ophelia was the most mastering im- 
pulse of his life." Another says, "There 
is nothing in Ophelia which could make 
her the object of an engrossing passion 
to so majestic a soul as Hamlet." An- 
other avers that the love of Hamlet for 
Ophelia is deep and true, precisely the 
kind of love which a man like Hamlet 
would feel for such a woman as Ophelia. 
Julia Marlowe asserts that "Ophelia's 
attitude toward Hamlet was always one 
of most extreme solicitude for his wel- 
fare." 

[Page 105] 



Sfj Hamlet's coldness and rudeness to- 
ward her after a time is excused by 
tender pity. The once noble intellect 
and clear understanding is clouded by 
melancholy, so that the former perfect 
harmony of being has touched a jarring 
chord. All serenity and grace of mind 
is dead. This Ophelia sadly observes. 
Consequently, the deception shown in 
her reply to Hamlet's inquiry regard- 
ing her father, was in the hope that 
by it she could help him and save her 
father. So deeply is her exquisite na- 
ture touched in sympathy for his mal- 
ady that any sacrifice of herself is glad- 
ly offered. Constantly in the society of 
Hamlet, she drank in the pledges of his 
love with unquestioning faith. 

Then occurs the scene where Hamlet 
upbraids himself, and Ophelia says lit- 
tle under the blasting sting of his words: 

"I did love you once." 

"Indeed, my lord, you made me believe 
so* 

[Page 106] 



"You should not have believed me. 
I loved you not/' 

"I was the more deceived." 



How cruel seems this treatment to 
the one who had been taught by love 
to feel herself the one beam of light 
and joy of her lover. His love- vows 
had been the food of her existence. In 
the delicacy of her pure mind t she sees 
the ruin of her hopes, the madness of 
her lover. Life's blandishments are be- 
yond her comprehension; she is hardly 
aware of her own feelings. She says 
little; she seems more conscious of be- 
ing loved than of loving. 

Yet, there is every evidence of hon- 
orable intention and sincerity in Ham- 
let's love making. In the letter which 
Polonius intercepts, Hamlet declares 
that he loves her "best, Oh, most best!" 
As we read the story, we have the con- 
viction that Hamlet regards Ophelia 
with the tenderness — love, if you will — 

[Page 107] 



which a morbid, contemplative nature 
may feel toward such a gentle, inno- 
cent girl as she. 

After his interview with the ghost, 
all his nature seems changed, and, in 
his malady, he forswears all earthly 
interests other than revenge. And his 
love for Ophelia must be at an end, 
erased from his heart, in answer to the 
vow he takes upon himself. 

Life offers no more joy for him; his 
future must be cast in a new mould. 
He does not wish to oppress Ophelia 
with his woes; he cannot reveal to her 
the terrible influences that have changed 
the current of his life. 

What an appalling situation presents 
itself to her! The sudden, violent death 
of her father, to whom she is devotedly 
attached, coming from the hand of her 
lover, touches the heart of those who 
can feel her sorrow and comprehend the 

[Page 108] 



web of horrors in which she is so inex- 
tricably entangled. 

Made orphan by the hand of her lov- 
er, to whom she had been so faithful, 
though repulsed and forsaken, the strain 
snaps the thread, and we feel almost 
glad that she goes on singing the frag- 
ments from a happy, fading memory, 
no longer capable of realizing her own 
distress. With garlands mixed of dais- 
ies and nettles, bright flowers and dark- 
some weeds, the brook reflects its play- 
mate, an innocent sweet child, with her 
symbolic crown, singing her own re- 
quiem. 



[Page 109] 



CLEOPATRA 



f 





CLEOPATRA 

j|HE barge she sat in, like a 
burnished throne, 
Burned on the water; the 

poop was beaten gold; 
Purple the sails, and so per- 
fumed that 
The winds were love-sick with them; the 

oars 
Were silver; which to the tune of flutes 

kept stroke, 
And made the water, which they beat to 
follow faster. 

For her own person, 
It beggared all description; she did lie- 
In her pavilion (cloth-of-gold of tissue) 
O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see 
The fancy outwork nature; on each side her 
Stood pretty, dimpled boys, like smiling 

Cupids, 
With divers colored fans. 
Her gentle women, like the Nereides, 
So many mermaids, tended her in the eyes. 

At the helm, 
A seeming mermaid steers; from the barge 
A strange, invisible perfume hits the sense 

[Page 113] 



Of the adjacent wharves. The city cast 
Her people out upon her; and Antony, 
Enthroned in the market place, did sit 

alone, 
Whistling to the air, which but for vacancy, 
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra, too, 
And made a gap in nature." 

The portrait of this marvelous woman 
could not be put upon canvas as strong- 
ly as in the word-coloring of the great 
Shakespeare, when he pictures her sail- 
ing up Cydnus in her gorgeous barge, 
bringing her allurements to bear on the 
heart of the sensuous Roman, whom 
she meets as an enemy and judge. 

She has reached her full-blown beau- 
ty ere she meets Antony and bewilders 
him with this dazzling picture of Orien- 
tal splendor. On her arrival, Antony 
invites her to the dinner of the Romans. 
She declines until he shall have called 
upon her, and he, with true urbanity, 
complies, and finds such splendor of 
entertainment as he has never before 

f Page 1141 



witnessed. He is enslaved from that 
hour. He departs as her conquered 
lover t but as a debased and cowardly 
warrior. Lewes says, "Because she was 
an Egyptian and a barbarian, she caught 
the Roman hero in her toils through 
the power of her charms, and caused a 
man, born with all the qualities of great- 
ness, to belie himself to his own ruin/' 

Antony seems hardly to have made 
an effort to resist the power of this vo- 
luptuous, beauty-breathing coquette, so 
experienced in the wiles of fascination, 
luxury and prodigality. Her changeful 
moods leave nothing for thought of 
moral sense, but by variety and every 
caprice of a spoiled woman, she be- 
guiles and holds spell-bound her new 
lover. And he, who was once the splen- 
did Mark Antony, calls out all her pas- 
sionate love, satisfies her inordinate van- 
ity, and by her wit and wondrous gifts, 
she accomplishes her desired end. 



[Page 115] 



With a rare knowledge of the lan- 
guages, she conversed without inter- 
preters with Greeks, Jews, Arabians, 
Syrians, Medes and Parthians, which en- 
tirely bewitched Antony. Instead of 
continuing his momentous duties, he 
gave up all manliness and followed her 
to Alexandria, there to revel in idleness 
and splendor, squandering riches and 
precious time, till he became the scan- 
dal of Rome. Never was a strong man 
more enthralled than was Antony by 
this fascinating woman. The effect of 
the wars, or the prosperity of his peo- 
ple were a secondary consideration to 
him. 

After months and months of dissipa- 
tion, which would seem to come from 
dethroned reason, Fulvia dies, which 
brings remorse and stirs Antony to a 
moment's consciousness. He realizes 
that a great soul is gone. "She's dead, 
my wife, my queen/ ' But the jeal- 

[Page 116] 



ousy of his "serpent of the Nile" and 
her taunting rebukes, lead but to quick 
forgetfulness and greater abandon in 
reconciliation. He seemed mad as the 
winds, and Cleopatra created for him 
an alluring atmosphere in which he 
basked. 

Occasionally we find Antony return- 
ing her taunts, as when he tells her that 
Octavia, his second wife (who is sister 
of Octavius Caesar, his greatest enemy), 
is the type of woman who can love so 
truly that a sacrifice of herself to the 
cause of duty seems but a light and 
necessary act. 

Upon hearing of Fulvia's death, Cleo- 
patra upbraids Antony by saying that 
she can see by Fulvia's death how hers 
"received will be." Yet, for fourteen 
years this mysterious chain bound him, 
and the toils of the serpent clung so 
closely as to lull to sleep all ambition. 
Kingdoms were sacrificed to this Egyp- 

[Page 117] 



tian, who, acting her well-planned part, 
enjoyed the lavish bestowal of gifts, in- 
cluding the famous Alexandrian library. 
How indignant must have been the 
people of Alexandria when they found 
that he had given her this library of 
such value, which he had no right to 
bestow. This treason to the state 
seemed little worse than his giving up 
the Parthian exposition; and his general 
abandonment of duty and official trust 
must have incensed every patriot. 

Cleopatra is the consummate actress, 
yet she is filled with passionate love 
for her Roman, and her anger and 
jealousy when she hears of Antony's 
marriage to Octavia proves its sincer- 
ity. Her mastering vanity, however, 
sustains her pain, and it is with delight 
that she learns of the ill-favored Oc- 
tavia, from the messenger who brings 
tidings of the marriage. 



[Page 118] 



This marriage was undoubtedly one 
of political importance, for Octavia was 
not only a stately and noble woman, 
but sister of a Roman grandee; and 
Antony must have considered her a 
more desirable match than the beauti- 
ful Egyptian. One would have sup- 
posed that after Fulvia's death, he 
would have selected as his wife his 
daily and hourly charmer, especially as 
she was a queen* How this must have 
piqued the proud daughter of the 
Ptolemies, that with all her charms, she 
was not equal to Caesar's sister. But 
she stifled her resentment and bided her 
time. She was too politic to show anger. 
She was not an impulsive woman and 
had a political point to gain as well. 

Octavius, in giving in marriage his 
sister, hoped to unite the kingdoms. 

"There is my hand, 
A sister I bequeath to you, whom no 
brother 

[Page 119] 



Did ever love so dearly; let her live 

To join our kingdoms and our hearts, and 

never 
Fly off our loves again." 

Octavia was the opposite of Cleo- 
patra: devoted and true; loving her 
brother and realizing the advantage of 
uniting the kingdoms. She gave her 
pure life into the keeping of Mark An- 
tony, loved him as her lord, watched 
and considered his every interest, even 
to caring for and carefully educating 
his three children, belonging to Cleo- 
patra, according to the historian Lord* 

Octavia's character in her pure, wom- 
anly virtue stands out as a clear light, 
a noble example of domestic worth and 
tranquillity of nature, whose life was an 
unbroken chain of acts of devotion. 
Her self-sacrifice in marrying Antony to 
bring about peaceful results for the 
kingdoms and her affection for Antony 
are superb. She sees his good qualities, 

[Page 120] 



and trusts that, by her faithfulness and 
influence, she may wean him from his 
weakness. 

Octavia was one of the most re- 
proachless women of antiquity. By the 
beautiful spirit which animated her life, 
she triumphed over great difficulties, 
and her deeds of heroism are too numer- 
ous for mention. Her discreet and open 
character was in heavenly contrast to 
the earth-stained Cleopatra, who 
"quailed before the silent protests of 
her modest eyes." But withal, she 
failed in her most desired object; her 
quiet virtue could not hold the heart 
or conscience of a man given to indul- 
gence, constantly looking for fresh de- 
lights. 

He goes back to Cleopatra, and the 
cry, "I am dying, Egypt, dying!" is 
the sacrifice offered up to an unlawful 
passion. The second wife stands be- 
fore us with heart torn and bleeding, 

[Page 121] 



with nothing left but the memory of 
her ineffable benevolence; and the trag- 
edy of life has enfolded another soul. 

The voluntary death of the evil- 
minded Cleopatra might reconcile as to 
her at the close of the chapter, were it 
not that we realize that she brought 
about Antony's defeat at Actium by 
her cowardly flight. 

Failing to enslave this third great 
Roman by. her charms, and finding that 
she had been spared only to grace his 
triumph in Rome, her proud spirit chose 
death rather than humiliation. At last 
Antony's eyes were opened when it be- 
came too late, and Shakespeare makes 
him bitterly exclaim, 

"All is lost, 
This foul Egyptian has betrayed me. . . . 
Betrayed I am. Oh, this false soul of 
Egypt!" 

proving that there were moments when 
his conscience smote him, little as it 
availed. 



[Page 122] 



Great as he might have becn t he was 
but poorly organized. Whether his 
daily life be discordant or harmonious, 
Cleopatra was the dominant portion. 
She proved herself his master as well 
as his mistress. There was no sunshine 
in life for him unless she shared it; she 
dominated his every affection. When 
he commanded one of the largest armies 
that any Roman general had ever com- 
manded, Antony wished to fight upon 
the land, but influenced by Cleopatra 
against his better judgment, he con- 
tended upon the sea. Never was in- 
fatuation followed by more serious and 
tragic consequences for him, but the 
result was of immense benefit to the 
Roman world. For Octavius was a 
peace-loving man, and the development 
of the new regime was vigorous and 
strong. 

Oh, Egypt! what a charming fraud; 
what a delightful, living, breathing pre- 

[Pagel23] 



tense; what a maze of bewildering con- 
tradictions! The irresistible elegance 
and grace of this wonderful being, her 
unconquered temper, her caprice and 
fickleness, her magnificent spirit and 
royal pride mingle into one brilliant 
picture of Oriental grandeur* 

Nor does it seem possible that a hu- 
man soul could be stowed away so art- 
fully to trap and allure such greatness. 
When a heart becomes wedded to vice, 
then as now, it is divorced from all 
good and ambition, and the magnif- 
icence of crowns and glory lose all 
charm. 

How revolting the thought of those 
pagan days when a woman, possessed 
of rare beauty and accomplishments, 
could put so much ruin in her path! 
Could exchange the priceless blessing 
of virtue for lavish gifts and orna- 
ments, those excitements and pleas- 

fPage 124] 






tires which ancient paganism gave as 
the only compensation for the loss and 
degradation of her immortal soul! 



[Page 125] 






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